AN: This chapter has taken an long time to write. I have no excuses, other than distraction with other fics. I hope you remember what has gone down previously and enjoy this one. And if it means anything, the next chapter has already been started. Hope you all survive the fangirling over Melissa on Conana tonight. I have to go pick up my kids from school right as it starts! UNFAIR!
Big thank you's to Imorca and Definitelywalkerbait for pushing me through the rough times with this chapter. I hope you all enjoy it!
Part Fifteen
He knows he shouldn't, doesn't want to give the wrong damn message, but he does it anyway. Merle showers for his dinner date and for the first time in probably a decade, he feels clean inside and out. Decent. Worthy. Something about the nervous, itchy way this night affects him scours out all the hate and cynicism that he's garnered around his heart his whole damn life. All it took was one whiff of this woman to turn his fucking knees all to jelly.
One sneaky glimpse of the shape of her tits in silhouette had him straining and pulsing like a wet behind the ears school boy that has never got his wick wet where it counts. He'd barely believe it, except for the evidence driving it home right the fuck now. He's supposed to be at Phil's place in less than five minutes and Merle is still stuck in front of his bathroom mirror, staring at his clean-shaven face, checking that his pearly whites are Colgate commercial perfect and there it is, a little tremor that passes through his body every twenty seconds or so to remind him that he has no clue what the hell he's doing. It's obviously been too long since he's had him a piece of ass, and a random thought formulates that maybe he shouldn't have so consistently told Eva to fuck off if this is what giving his dick a rest has brought him to. It's the only explanation he's willing at this point to give himself, because if he thinks about it any harder he already knows the kind of shit he's going to rain down on top of himself. And he already knows it's a hell of a lot more than he can handle. Daryl was always the sweet one, not Merle, and he instantly knows Carol deserves sweet.
Merle blinks and swallows hard, raising wide, careful eyes back to his image in the mirror. It's already too late, he realises, tips his head to himself in a knowing nod and tries to slam the doors down on all the bodies, all the kills, all the men and boys and kids that he's laid witness to their last breaths on earth and twisted up in all that horror is this sweet little woman, who knowingly teased him with the hint of her nude body in the middle of the night and made his heart thump with something new and unexpected. Maybe she doesn't know yet she was made for sweet, but Merle does and for some reason, knowing this hurts him more than he could have ever predicted.
Stepping away from the mirror and then out of the bathroom, Merle switches a glance from his boots to his door. His boots shine—he'd spit and polished them but good himself and now he feels like slapping himself up the side of his own head at the utter pussy he's turned himself into. He's ashamed, disgusted with himself that he's taken so much care with how he looks, too aware that this might be his last chance to make an impression. To give that woman something of himself to remember fondly, if she's so inclined to remember him at all when they leave this town. Even if he knows she shouldn't. He's such a fool because even now he knows that once she catches her final sight of him, she'll be happiest to see his back and will wander far away from Woodbury and all it stands for, hoping she never runs across him again.
He arrives right behind the women, and while Phil ushers them in, handing out drinks and acting the gracious and innocent host, Merle can't take his eyes off her. She's wearing a blue shirt the colour of her eyes and he's thoroughly captivated. The colour doesn't just emphasise her beauty, it makes her look strong. Shows him how far she's come from the pathetic, afraid little mouse that had skittered as far away from trouble at the quarry as she could. Who'd dressed to blend in an effort to be invisible to the man whose self-worth was dependent on whether she was suffering bruises that day or not. This woman not only needs to be looked at, admired, she wants to be, and Merle can't help himself, even when it's obvious his attention is making her a little uncomfortable. Her cheeks are flushed but her lips are plump and pink and when he finds himself counting the freckles that are dancing across her nose, Merle wonders when he turned into such a pansy-ass. He's never noticed freckles on a woman before—can't think of one out of the multitudes he's fucked since he first learned what a hard dick was destined for that he's made the effort to remember a single feature, but her, he's got her memorised already.
Michonne is staring out the window and he can just see the edge of her scowl. Andrea's giggling at some cockamamie bullshit story Phil's whipped up to be charming and Merle smirks secretly to himself. Darkie's getting impatient—wants out of this little shop of horrors and quick, but while they wait for Carol to return to enough strength to survive once she sets foot outside of the place, Andrea is drifting under the town's spell.
Milton corners Carol near the kitchen, quizzing her on her life before the turn, whether she's witnessed anyone turn, what it's been like out there just the three of them on their own and as the questions keep being thrown at her rapid fire, he can see her start to twitch and knows she's waiting, trying to be polite and answer the idiot's questions courteously, but waiting all the same for the one question she dreads. The one question above all she doesn't want to answer. He doesn't want her to be forced to acknowledge the girl he remembers from the quarry, the one who'd never been safe in either side of the world she'd known. He doesn't want to see that pain in her eyes, but Milton pushes on like the insensitive little shit he is, wiping away all traces of her relaxed smile.
"Have you lost anyone to the virus?"
The words are callous, curious and it sparks a reaction the little scientist doesn't expect. In a blink Michonne erupts across the room, standing menacingly before him and protecting Carol behind her. "That is none of your business. She isn't your little lab rat," she hisses as she glares down her nose at him, her hand seeking back for Carol's, and Carol's shaking hand slides right into it like it's something they've done before. Like this support of each other is the most natural thing in the world to them. "Go and study something else." Her directive resembles a snarl and Merle stands back, impressed at how quick she turns she wolf when she needs to. It's a dynamic that confuses him but Merle watches on, entirely fascinated, and not a small part jealous. He's had that, with Daryl—when he was straight enough to notice and appreciate it. Daryl always raced in to defend him against any asshole that dared stand up against a Dixon, and so the reminder that he's lost that hits him like a punch to the guts.
Andrea also closes ranks, leaving Phil's presence long enough to complete the protective circle around Carol and Merle is so surprised he almost betrays them with a laugh. He's never seen anything like it, this staunch solidarity, this affection for another that wasn't blood. He knows blood, understands how compelling it is to defend your kin whether they're made of shit or not, but this, this circle of girls…now this is the shit. Quite surprisingly, he thinks he can get behind something like this. He's seen more genuine care about another person in the space of two minutes between these three than he thinks he's witnessed in this entire town in the last year. He thinks he might be jealous—he misses having at least one person he can confess his shit to, whether it's fear or fun. Daryl had always been there to bring him back from the brink, and since he's been around Phil, Merle has been forced to keep track of himself, keep his own self in line, hold onto the fears he harbours down deep, grating so low it damn near sands off his balls and what keeps him up nights. The relief to share, to enlighten someone else about all the violence and shit that goes on right under their noses would be overwhelming. Would be a challenge…a sweet, sweet relief.
"I've lost a sister," Andrea volunteers gently, ever the peace-keeper, taking Milton's arm and moving him away from Carol so subtly that Merle almost misses it with how suddenly he was enraptured with the sparkling wet eyes of the woman who was left. He's so attentive he finds his body drifting toward her, wanting to offer words that might take the pain away, but before he can force a word out of his now dry throat, they crumble up and dissipate while he stands there like an awkward teen without the first clue how to speak to a girl.
Merle sucks on his teeth with annoyance. He catches herattention, but not only hers. Phil watches him intently, and as his eyes sweep Merle from head to toe, a sinister twist remaining on his lips, Merle's heart sinks and he realises what he's done. He's clean and shaven, neatly dressed—he's fucking preened enough to impress the damn President and he can already guess without any trouble at all where Phil's head is at and it makes Merle nervous. Makes him sweat that he's screwed it all up without even trying. He can't have Phil thinking Merle's interested in one of the women—in Carol. It's important he doesn't suspect anything and Merle's blown it. In one careless, unthinking moment he might as well have blown them all to shit.
"As fascinatin' as y'all are, when's dinner?" Merle drawls, his nonchalant act drawing up his innards in a cramping, painful worry that's almost excruciating. He has fear settling across his shoulders, his plans running flat through his head and all the hope he has is propped up on this weak as shit, grating obnoxious redneck personality he's dragged out and dusted off. He props himself against the wall and tries to look so bored his eyes are about to roll up into the back of his head. "Got me somewhere else to be," he lies, almost wishing he can take it back when Carol's eyes widen in surprise before her gaze switches away abruptly and clashes with the floorboards, her face looking pale.
"I do apologise, Merle," Phil says with an oily, amused edge. "If I'd known you had a prior engagement, I'd have let you off the hook." His insincere smile makes Merle's blood run cold, and he's sucked into a staring match that is only snapped when Michonne almost marches in between them, aiming a piercing, questioning stare at Merle that he thinks might betray a great amount of her wariness and suspicion of their host. He feels instantly wracked with chills and he switches his weight from one foot to the other, trying to decide where exactly he stands while shoving his sweaty hand into the pocket of his pants.
"Ain't nothin'," he stalls, excuses running through his head a mile a minute. "Bitch can wait."
There's a crash in the kitchen that makes them all jump. A tear-streaked Eva runs out of the kitchen and Merle would be a true master if he was able to hold back the balls-deep groan that lurches its way out of his body. Another thing he doesn't need, another complication he didn't foresee, though for once, Eva just might serve his purpose. The suggestion of two women will surely make Phil think any interest he might have in the dinner guests is fleeting.
"Who is it?" Eva screams as she launches herself at him and for the first time he's truly scared he only has the one hand to restrain her. He doesn't have to struggle too long, Phil coming surprisingly to the rescue by snatching her wrists and holding her securely against his own body. There is a glint of sadistic amusement in their wise leader's eyes and Merle can feel the revulsion twisting its way through his bloodstream, influencing the flex of his fist. He's done tired of all this pretence, all these lies. Most of his life has been little more than staying one step ahead of the game, but now he's so very tired, he just wants it done. He feels defeated though there's enough left in him to do this one final thing, to help Carol—to make sure she stays safe. Not like she's a damn cat with nine lives—just a woman, and he's compelled to protect her with everything he has inside him that hasn't rotted to the bone.
"None a your damn business." He can't look at Eva, had almost forgotten her in his swirling thoughts about what he is doing—who he is doing it for. Instead the wariness he feels has him clashing with Carol's watery ocean-like eyes and he feels sucker-punched, quailing before her severe look of betrayal. He hasn't betrayed anyone, not yet anyways, and he's starting to resent that Phil has pitched this disaster at him, wanting to smash it back and take Phil's head with it. His stomach rumbles amidst all the emotional trauma and he growls again, turns toward Eva and tries to ward off the coiled sense of dread that drags him under and rocks him a little off his centre. He almost snarls at her.
"The fuck you drop in there anyways? Better not have been our dinner." He treats her with a hard stare filled with his loathing, wishing he could really just tell her to fuck off and leave him the hell alone, stop following him, cooking for him, stop even knowing he exists because one more episode with her and he might find the motivation to do his first killin' he can easily justify and sleep through the damn night.
"No, it wasn't," she says, shaking her head frantically, useless tears welling in her eyes before she pulls herself out of the Governor's arms, almost asking silent permission to return to the duty she's been given for the night amidst pathetic apologies for interrupting his party, and hightails it back to the kitchen with a gentle, forgiving pat from Phil, shooting Merle one last nasty look as her ass disappears behind the doorframe.
"Sour grapes, Merle?" Dark eyes as sleek and smooth as liquid chocolate penetrate his soul and sees something so deep inside of him that he has to take a step back, hoping his heart is up to this new challenge as it threatens to teach him a new, final rhythm.
"Fuck no," he spits out, equally confused by why Michonne is all up in his face and disgusted by the thought of Eva having any damn reason to be upset about him leaving the dinner festivities to go visit some broad that doesn't even exist. All he wants is to throw Phil off the scent, give the guy something else to fester inside his diseased mind so he can skip on out of here with his balls attached and his plan still functional. All he wants is to suddenly wipe away the odd, sad expression that has taken root in Carol's pretty blue eyes and sweep his arm across Michonne to get her away from him, even if she's still far enough away that a swing of his arm wouldn't even reach her. He's had confrontational woman try to tear strips off him before, but this one cuts them deep into a body with her sword first before ripping them free of muscle and tissue. She seems too close, in his space, stealing his air, making him break out in a nervous sweat because this one, she sees too damn much with barely even looking. "Dumb bitch has been after me for months," he mumbles, confused and not a little ashamed that it's gone down like this, in a way that has altered the way Carol studies him. "Can't take no for a damn answer," he's compelled to admit, glancing to the side to see what reaction Carol might have to that, if any, but she's turned right away from him, wandered toward Andrea and Milton and he's surprised to see the blonde still entertaining the nerdy one with her stories of woe, mesmerising Phil into the bargain.
While everyone is distracted, Michonne takes a step closer, her mouth a straight line, her face a picture of serious contemplation as she studies him. He stares back at her, half-scared she'll see something she's not meant to, half-scared she won't. At last she nods, even gifts him with a toothy smile that almost stops his heart with how unexpected it is.
"She trusts you," she says, so quiet he's straining closer to make sure he hears it properly. He knows she's not talking about Eva and the complexity of it all sits in deep frown lines upon his face.
"She shouldn't," he warns, gruff and menacing, knowing anyone that chooses to trust him is nothing more than a damn idiot. He's done fuck all to be trustworthy for—never has been in his whole useless life, so why start now?
Michonne drags her gaze all over him, looks him up and down and out of the corner of his eye he can see Phil trying to show everyone to their seats and Merle tries not to look obvious with how uncomfortable he's feeling. She sweeps back in closer, like she's a ballet dancer and barely clears his toes as she dances past. "She should." It happens so fast he's sure he's mistaken; she's seized the one chance she had when Phil's back was turned, speaking to Eva to begin serving the meal, and he knows she's a soldier like him, a survivor, an opportunist. She's damn near the most dangerous individual he's ever met besides himself and Phil, and Merle grins, hopeful.
He watches as she glides away and sits at the table, back to glaring insolently at Phil, and Merle's left shaking where he stands at this sudden gift of approval that he never even sought.